The Forks was the last water seen for two days. They passed out of the verdure that followed the level river banks and into a sweltering land where the mosquitoes were still unbearable. The caravan plodded along until on a dazzling midday, when the order came to halt for a mooning, the animals stood with open, panting months. A large white ox that was yoked to St. Vrain’s wagon lay down in the shade of the Conestoga, as it was called, and the colonel helped Steve stretch a blanket from two poles to give the beast some relief from the heat of the sun. The colonel was distressed at finding that the oxen upon which he had counted so much could not, apparently, withstand as much drought as the mules. But he learned that the animal had not had its fill at the Forks and had been suffering patiently. Steve begged to be allowed to go off with Pierre to fetch water for the ox, as they were not more than a few miles inland from the river, and St. Vrain agreed. That night they crept on hands and knees through the deep grass, their pace accelerated by the giant gnats and buzzing of their constant companions. The river lay beyond. There was scarcely a tree along the level banks, and to approach it would mean exposing themselves. They would be seen, without doubt, for a bright moon was shining now. Pierre, fortunately, struck one of the numerous buffalo trails that had been trodden through the grass by the passage of many hoofs, and following it, still on hands and knees, they came out at the river’s edge where the trail was worn in a deep and narrow cut through the bank. In the shadow of the cut they could not be seen. They flung themselves down, drank their fill, and filled the canteens. On the other side of the river reared high white sand dunes that gleamed in the moonlight. The full moon, riding like a lantern over the prairie, showed them for a few moments three feathered riders on the opposite bank. They dropped, and retreated for a mile on flat stomachs. Reaching the caravan again, Steven poured one canteen after another into a basin for the panting creature on whose life depended their means of locomotion and the transportation of a part of that valuable cargo for the sake of which death in the desert, torture by Indians, were being defied. The ox looked up at them gratefully and drained the basin at one suck. Before long it was sufficiently revived to stagger to its feet and graze. “We return to the river again tomorrow night,” said St. Vrain, “and two days later will be at Cimmaron Crossing. We’ll cross the Arkansas there and take the shorter, southern trail straight to Santa Fe.” This trail led through a desolate stretch of desert, a high arid plateau, swept by blistering winds. Steven was disappointed that they would leave the Arkansas behind and not make Bent’s Fort. CHAPTER IV THE RED TRAIL